Rent Essay

I am writing an essay, That is the first thing I’d like to get out of the way. If you don’t stop now, you will be reading my essay. That’s the second thing. Rent is the theme of this essay according to a force outside myself and, apparently, stronger than my own determination. I have no choice but to capitulate. So I found myself lying on my bed after returning from work as the sun set over New Jersey. Light streams across my bed in those magical evening hours and the sound of the West Side Highway far below my fire escape takes on the dull white noise of the sea. If you close your eyes lightly, so your eyelids glow just like they do while laying on a beach, you can transport yourself to the virgin islands or another exotic local, except of course its hard to forget about New Jersey. As I lay there I was mulling over Rent as a topic and how I should approach it. When it was first introduced to me, my mind went to that monetary exchange that used to keep a roof over my head before I became a shareholder in a co-op and switched rent for maintenance. That was quickly usurped by the idea of writing about the musical RENT and why I won’t go see it EVER. I could wax on about the desecration of the opera La Boheme, puffing myself up and wrapping myself nicely in a shawl of elitism. So comfortable and familiar was this idea that I immediately became bored and thought of taking a nap. That’s when Cola shifted on my chest. Since the age of seven I have had cats in and out of my life. My first cat was all black and named appropriately. I cannot tell you his name because it is the security answer to so many of my online accounts. Stormy (oops, shit!) died while my family was away visiting my grandparents in Washington State before Californians discovered it. Everyone except for my father. He remained home because of work. Stormy was undoubtedly locked in the basement the whole time because my father doesn’t like animals. He developed a urinary blockage and went unnoticed. Bad timing. There have been many others since, sometimes one at a time, sometimes in pairs. Cola is the current FIR (feline in residence). She moved in with a girl about a year ago. I love cats and they love me, especially the way my armpits smell. And that’s when it hit me. I could write this essay about cats and rent. Its always been a pet peeve of mine about cats. They don’t pull their weight, you know, they don’t pay rent so to speak. Sure they can be handy keeping rodents away but that seems to be like a default setting, a happy accident. Other than that they don’t do anything, while I have to dig into my pocket every month for cans of food, litter, a toy now and again and anything else that might come up. I was ready to speak to Cola about how I thought it might be time for her to think about contributing to the household when I noticed a little ooze coming from her right eye. I wiped it away with a rag from the bedside table. Her face was six inches from mine, and she pushed her head against my fist in thanks. Cola is about ninety-seven in cat years and has lost a lot of weight recently. She has taken to crawling up on one of our chests whenever we are prone and gets as close to our face as she can. She purrs with abandon when she reaches this resting place. She is old and fading and will leave us soon as all my other cats have in various ways. I have not known her long but I will miss her when she goes and will do my best to keep her purring and comfortable until then. The sun was just below the horizon as I lay my head back down on the pillow and ran my hand down the spiny back of the old girl, still purring. I felt foolish and cheap and scrooge-like for not giving her or any of my other feline companions from earlier days ample credit for what they do contribute. Damn the rent. They give me their little lives. They share with me that everything.

Homage Essay

There was a theatre director my mother used to call Mr. Sweater. His real name was Garland Wright, and my mother, who was a buyer for a west coast department store, and a card carrying member of the rag business, dubbed him thusly. I knew Garland because I was romantically entangled with his comely assistant. On again, off again and over great distances, but entangled nonetheless. He was a slight man, pale skinned and black haired with a trimmed goatee and mustache. Fey to a fault, sharp-tongued, intelligent, insightful, droll, and a chain smoker to beat the band. He was a wonderful director. Mostly because he adored actors. He was an actor himself for a very short time. If asked he would have considered himself, like the playwright David Mamet claims to be, a failed actor. Garland however, unlike Mamet, developed a love for acting and by extension the actor. This affection permeated his work. When I direct, I generally start out the rehearsal process hoping to emulate my memory of Garland’s approach to the work. I end up however much closer to my memory of another director’s methods and temperament, that of Dan Sullivan. Dan is also a wonderful director, but much less exuberant, not as demonstrative nor outwardly supportive, some say a bit of a cold fish. I disagree. He and I just don’t gush. Dan was an actor who turned full-time director early on. I am an actor who started as a fledgling director then turned my sights toward acting as I fell into the thrill of it, and now I direct occasionally. I love acting and admire those who do it well and those who try. Dan, I believe, still holds a love of actors and their struggles in his heart although he, unlike Garland, wouldn’t let it be known. These days it is quite common to find yourself working with a director who has never acted. In this age of specialization the collaborative art of theatre has fallen victim to ever-thicker lines of delineation. So and so writes, someone else directs, others act, she does lights, he’ll handle the sets, the husband-and-wife team will design costumes, a guy does the sound design, his girlfriend will do multi-media and projections, oh and casting directors want an oscar category. Generally none of these people have ever acted, know anything about acting nor typically give two bits about an actors task, which is by far the hardest in the room bar none. But don’t tell all those folks that last bit, they tend to get defensive. Shakespeare was an actor, so too Moliére, Chekhov, Strindberg, Stanislavski, Chaplin, Nichols, Shepard and on and on. All directors and/or writers too, but critically also actors. The theatre has lost something quite crucial in the exchange. I have spent ample time on both sides of the tech table. In and among the cast when acting and sitting in the house with directors, designers, crew, producers etc. when doing otherwise. I have witnessed first hand the decay of respect routinely awarded the actor in days past. And so, when not acting, and as I take up the baton of the director, or craft scripts never-to-be-performed in the quiet of my office-ette, or stage manage tours of Grease through mid-sized German towns, I vow to dedicate my efforts as an homage to the days before specialization. The days when the centrality of the actor (the only indispensable creator in the theatrical process) was not conveniently overlooked.